The Other Side of the Window
by GhostOfBambi
Summary: After six years of bouncing from foster home to foster home, Lily Evans thinks she'll never find a real family until Fleamont and Euphemia Potter show up out of the blue. Just as unexpected is falling for their only son, who doesn't seem to know how to act around her. Modern era AU.
1. no more stillness, more sunlight

**Author's Note:** Firstly, I just want to apologise about the lack of update on Filthy Animals. It was meant to be up today, but I was really low on editing time during the week and there was a scene that I still wasn't happy with right up until this afternoon - unfortunately I am also quite unwell at the moment, so didn't have much energy to work on it. As a result, it has only just gone to beta, and so to make up for it I decided to post part 1 of this fic a little earlier than I expected.

This is a four-part fic, and the second part will be uploaded once I have finished posting Filthy Animals completely.

This story is set in the wizarding world, with elements of Muggle culture thrown in due to Lily's background. Aside from the fact that this story has a modern setting, there are a couple of other deviations from canon, the biggest being that Lily has no prior relationship with, or knowledge of, Severus Snape. There wasn't a way to make that fit organically into the story, but overall I don't think it matters much.

In any case, please enjoy! I've had a blast writing it!

 **part 1 - no more stillness, more sunlight**

Mrs. Cole comes to Lily that morning and tells her, quite unexpectedly, that she's been fostered again, and will be leaving in the afternoon.

For Lily, it comes as a bit of a shock, especially since she had no indication that anyone was interested – in the younger kids, yes, but not in a sixteen-year-old encumbrance who makes people uneasy. She tries to question Mrs. Cole, but gets a vague, nonsensical response, and a few hours later finds herself standing in the main office, meeting her latest new family.

While the mostly-silent Mr. Potter has twinkling eyes and a plum suit, Mrs. Potter is unlike any foster mother Lily has ever met – and she's met a good handful of them – but seems happy to encourage the distinction. She has sleek, elegantly-set black hair, wears a string of pearls and says, 'call me Euphemia' to everyone she meets, and Lily can't place her age at all. When she's ushered out of the building and into their car – with minimal fuss, which is strange, because she's used to this process and it should be different – Euphemia joins her in the back seat, instead of sitting in the front with her husband.

The car is a Rolls Royce, and it's new. Mr. Potter dons a pair of leather gloves at the driver's seat. "Like a real chauffeur," says Euphemia, smiling girlishly at Lily, as if they're taking a trip to the spa. "I do enjoy a bit of theatricality, every now and then."

"You're rich, then?" says Lily baldly.

"Yes, dear," says Euphemia, adjusting her necklace. "We've done alright for ourselves."

"Is that why you were able to foster me so quickly?" she asks, picking at the cuff of her sleeve, which is chewed-down and threadbare. Children without guardians tend to go without good quality clothing, even in a Good Facility like she one she's been living in for the past six months. That term – Good Facility – was thrown around a lot, particularly by the staff, and the occasional MP, as if a penniless, unwanted orphan like Lily was supposed to feel lucky to be living there.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because," she says, and shrugs. "Money can get you past obstacles, and rich people have advantages we ordinary folk don't."

"Let's not operate under the assumption that you're ordinary, dear," says Euphemia. She fingers Lily's sleeve. "We'll have to get you some new clothes."

The car moves out of the drive, but Lily doesn't turn back for any last, lingering looks. It's only a children's home – an orphanage, if you're in the mood for plain speaking – and she'll be back in a few weeks. No family has ever wanted to keep her for more than a couple of months. This one isn't going to be any different.

"I don't need new clothes," she responds, eyes on Euphemia's manicured fingers. "But thank you."

"Pardon my vulgarity, dear, but that's nonsense."

Despite herself, the corners of Lily's lips quirk upwards. "Where I come from, that wouldn't be considered vulgar."

"I'm aware," says Euphemia dryly. "We'll go to London tomorrow and freshen up your wardrobe. New jeans, shirts, dresses, that kind of thing. Shoes, too," she adds, and Lily tucks her scuffed, dirty trainers as far beneath her seat as they can go. "And dress robes. You'll need dress robes."

"What are dr—"

"Essential, dear, that's what they are. We throw a lot of events that require formal wear."

"Right," says Lily, frowning. "But what are dress ro—"

"Don't worry about finding an escort, either. I've got two boys your age, and Merlin knows they'll jump at the chance to usher a pretty girl about the place. She _is_ pretty, isn't she, Fleamont?" she says, addressing her husband, who doesn't have a moment to respond before she's off again, smiling at Lily with her white, white teeth. "Quite uncommon. _Beautiful_ eyes. James is going to be quite wild about you, dear."

"You think so?" says her husband, chuckling, while Lily tries in vain to come to terms with the name _Fleamont._

"He'll be catching flies with that big gob of his for a week," says Euphemia confidently. "I'll stake five Galleons on it."

"Galleons?" Lily repeats, and she's growing more and more confused. "Like, pirate ships?"

"I'll explain everything at home, dear, but first you should get some rest."

Lily is about to say that she's not tired – a lie, because she's been sharing a room with five other girls, two of whom snore like rabid beasts – but Euphemia murmurs something under her breath and there's a whoosh of warm, fragrant air, and Lily's eyelids flutter gently shut. After that, she knows no more.

* * *

She dreams of her father, of how he'd hoist her onto his broad shoulders to pick horse-chestnuts from trees, of the smell of his worn leather jacket, of flowers that open and close in the palm of her hand, of finger paints and an old paddling pool and of her mother dancing in the kitchen, her red hair streaming out behind her like fire. Her senses are still full of that warm, sweet-smelling breeze, and she's never had such a beautiful sleep.

She wakes at the sound of a car door opening, and finds Euphemia Potter's handsome, ageless face peering at her from the next seat over.

"I'm sorry for sending you to sleep, Fleamont gave me a real telling off," she says, and pats Lily's hand. "But you just looked so exhausted, bless your heart. I've got no concept of personal space, James always says. Tell me if I'm too much in future, okay?"

She's still drowsy, and confused, and a small, stubborn voice in the back of her head tells her that _this is all very strange, and you should be more worried_ , but she feels oddly calm, like she's skirting around the edges of a discovery that will make sense of everything again. And Mrs. Potter seems so kind.

"Who's James?" she says, and suppresses a yawn. "Why is he catching flies?"

"You'll meet him soon enough, dear. We're home, come have a look."

Blinking, Lily steps out of the car and into the sunlight, and her heart gives a queer little spasm because she's stepped into another dream.

She pictured the Potters in a stylish, imposing townhouse in the centre of a bustling city, but this – a huge, whitewashed stone farmhouse, set amongst an endless expanse of trees, with a bubbling stream and ivy creeping up the walls – this is nothing like she expected. This is straight out of a Jane Austen novel. This is the house of her childhood fantasies. This is a fairytale.

Euphemia must notice her awed reverence, for she puts her arm around Lily's shoulders.

"It's nice, isn't it?" she says. "Come along inside, dear, and I'll tell you a lovely story."

* * *

Mr. Potter goes to his office almost immediately – urgent business with the company, his wife says – but not before patting Lily on the arm and telling her to make herself comfortable, and not let those boys terrorise the life out of her when they get back from school.

Lily follows Euphemia to the kitchen, her feet echoing on the spotless flagstone floor, her rucksack hanging limply from one shoulder. Euphemia sits her down at the breakfast bar, takes her rucksack and brings it to another part of the house, leaving Lily to sit and gaze at the garden through the large, glass door in the back wall. It's just as lush as the rest of the grounds, bursting with wildflowers, home to a grand old oak, and with the stream cutting right through the middle of it all. She's standing at the door, palms flat against the glass, craning her neck to see as far as she can see, when Euphemia comes back and offers her a cup of tea.

She has one, and then another, and is halfway through a bacon sandwich and an airy, meaningless chat about the weather when Euphemia cocks her head to the side, and clears her throat.

"I know, of course, that you're magic."

A clock ticks somewhere in the background, and Euphemia's face remains impassive, and Lily has to fight to swallow her sandwich.

"I'm – what?" she says, her throat smarting from swallowing too quickly. "What are you talking about?"

"Magic, dear. Look," says Euphemia, and from a fold within her dress she draws a long, thin strip of wood. She slashes it through the air like a conductor's baton and suddenly the breakfast bar is on fire and Lily is reeling backwards out of her seat, though she can't feel any heat, and her new foster mother is quite calm.

"Oh my god," she breathes, both hands pressed against her heart. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_. You're—"

"A witch," says Euphemia. "That's the technical term for it."

She waves her wand again and the fire vanishes, and she laughs, a posh, lilting sound.

"Sorry about that. _Again_ ," she says, and pockets her wand. "As I said before, I'm quite theatrical. You'll get used to it. Do sit back down, dear."

Lily does not sit back down. Nobody in their right mind would sit back down, after that.

"I should leave," she says, and her voice is thin, and she thinks of those flowers in the palm of her hand, and of the vase in Mr. Cooper's living room, and of leaping from a swing, as carefree as a bird, and floating to her feet like a feather in the wind. She should be more shaken, and it scares her that she isn't. "I should leave right now. I should be – I should be _terrified_."

"And yet, you're not," says Euphemia calmly. "Not one bit. Why do you think that is?"

But Lily can't bring herself answer that. Her throat still hurts.

"How many foster families sent you back?" Euphemia continues, and her tone is light, but her frank, hazel eyes are all compassion. "And your sister? She's old enough to be your guardian now, yes? But she won't have you either. Why?"

The mention of Petunia nearly sets her to tears, but she's not going to cry. She never cries, makes a rule of it. "Because I-" She swallows again, nothing but air this time. "Because I frighten them."

"Because things happen around you that you can't explain?"

She nods stiffly. "How do you know all of that?"

"You poor, dear little thing," says Euphemia. "You've grown up believing there was something wrong with you, but you've always been just fine."

She stands up and circles the breakfast bar, coming to a halt in front of Lily, and takes her hands in her own.

"You're just like me," she says, smiling. "A witch. A very powerful one, I'd reckon. You simply need to learn to control it. That's why I'm here." She squeezes Lily's hands. "To help you."

It's too much to take in, and magic shouldn't - doesn't - exist, and these people are mad.

And yet, Lily's not a fool.

She never felt like a bad kid. She never rebelled or ran away, or tried to be anything other than pleasant. She never wanted to hurt anyone or frighten anyone, but it always seemed to happen anyway. Everyone else insisted that she was the bad one, and sometimes she's believed it. It's all been so confusing, and she's been so _tired_.

So she meets Euphemia's hazel eyes with her own green ones, and nods.

"Why, though?" she whispers. "Why do you even want to help me? I'm nobody to you."

"Sit down, dear, come on," Euphemia instructs, and leads her back to her seat like a sleepwalker. She does not return to her earlier position on the other side of the bar, but takes the stool next to Lily and pushes her plate towards her.

"I love children," she says. "Eat the rest of your sandwich. Flea and I always wanted children. Desperately. Tried for years. We'd just about given up when James came along - he's your age, you'll like him - and he made our lives an utter joy. Do you know what an utter joy feels like?""

Lily shakes her head, because perhaps she does, but it's been so long since her parents died that she's simply forgotten.

"You will, dear, I'll see to it that you do," Euphemia promises, and pushes a lock of hair behind Lily's ear. "Anyway, last year, James's best friend, Sirius, ran away from home over Christmas. He's got a terrible family, bless him - but I digress. Fleamont and I took him in and that was another kind of joy altogether. We decided recently that we'd like to help other children in similar situations, so we've looked into fostering, but it's been very, very difficult. We can't show ourselves to non-magic folk, you see, and how do you bring a Muggle child into a house like this? Your sandwich, dear."

Lily picks up her sandwich and takes a large, indulgent bite. It's really delicious, the combination of salty, crispy bacon and melting butter, and it strikes her how motherly it is of Mrs. Potter, to be concerned about Lily's appetite at a time like this.

"Anyway, we were at our wits end for a while," she carries on. "But then we found you, and it's all come together quite nicely!"

"How did you - sorry," says Lily, through a mouthful of bread, overeager. She swallows her food. "How did you find me?"

"We have ways of tracing our own kind - it looks like your then-foster parents rejected your Hogwarts letter, another one really should have been sent after - but that's no matter, we'll sort out your education once you're settled in."

"My education?"

"Yes, dear. Your magical education. The sooner we start, the better."

Lily blinks. The rest of the sandwich lies forgotten on her plate. "I can have a magical education?"

"That's why I brought you here," says Euphemia, and encircles Lily's thin wrist with her fingers. "Well, that, and to make sure you eat a little more. I'll speak to my son's headmaster - James is at Hogwarts, you see, that's the school for children of our kind. He and Sirius will be back in two weeks. You know, it's been an age since I attended, but I'm sure they'll be happy to tell you all about it."

Lily can barely hear her, because the words 'magical education' are hanging in the air, whizzing past her eyes, glittering like pixie dust.

"We'll need to arrange for private lessons," Euphemia is saying, twirling her lovely, elegant hands. "At school or here, I wouldn't like to stick you in with the first years, but Dumbledore and I will come to some arrangement. We have to get you a wand, firstly, so we'll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow, after we've been to Muggle London for some new clothes. I know you said you don't need any, dear, but I have to insist-"

But she's cut off, because Lily throws her arms around her neck.

"Thank you," she sighs, and Mrs. Potter hugs her in return, and Lily is left with an utterly novel feeling that someone actually cares. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_."

"You're very welcome, dear," says Euphemia, and pats her gently on the back. "Finish your sandwich."

* * *

Her bedroom has a large window seat that looks over the garden, scattered with colourful cushions, and a four poster bed with a white, wooden frame. Euphemia wakes her at the crack of dawn the next morning. "Let's have a girly day together," she says, sounding almost gleeful. "Before those rotten boys get back for the summer."

Except Lily sees a fair few photos of those 'rotten boys' over her scrambled eggs and toast, and they don't – outwardly at least – seem close to rotten at all. Especially one of them, the one who appears in most of the photos, but she keeps that thought to herself.

Instead, she exclaims over how the photos move by themselves, and teaches Euphemia how to take a selfie on her phone.

Mr. Potter is working again, so it's Euphemia who shows Lily how to travel by Floo powder, which is a thrill in itself, and a little frightening. Magic seems to involve a lot of fire, which Lily points out after she steps from the hearth of a grubby old pub on Charing Cross Road, brushing non-existent soot from her shoulders.

"Fire is a good thing," says Euphemia simply. "Imagine a romance without it?"

They go to Muggle London first – Lily has learned what 'Muggle' means – and she discovers that Euphemia is a champion shopper. She drags Lily from store to store, piling her arms with jeans and dresses, and makes her try everything on before they buy. She gets a proper bra fitted for the first time in her life, new boots and sandals and sensible running shoes, several pairs of pyjamas and fresh underwear, and Euphemia pays for everything, ignoring Lily's repeated protests. Though they buy a boutique's worth of clothes, Euphemia manages to fit everything in one bag that feels as light as a feather in Lily's hand.

They return to the pub, The Leaky Cauldron, for lunch, and the food is delicious despite the pub's dark, dingy interior. Euphemia talks a lot about her son and his talents, and his accomplishments, and the strange bond he shares with his cat. Lily suspects that she's exaggerating his brilliance, but she doesn't begrudge her.

Afterwards, they step into Diagon Alley, and this is what Lily has been waiting for all day.

The winding, cobbled street is an explosion of colour and sound, of odd puffs of smoke, cheerful shopfronts, broomsticks and cauldrons, and interesting people wearing interesting clothes. It does not disappoint her wildest hopes.

They peruse books in Flourish and Blotts, where a knowledgeable shopkeep has a word with Euphemia and presents Lily with a stack of what he calls 'the basics,' and buy a cauldron in Potage's, where Lily is informed that Fleamont's lab has everything she'll need to get in good practice. In Twilfitt and Tatting's, where they stop for dress robes, she's fitted in the most beautiful gown she's ever seen. It's made of an impossibly light, flowing material, in glittering midnight black, and is sleeveless, but with a long cape and train. It's a gown made for movie star, or a princess, but it's hers, and no one appears to snatch it away.

She stares at herself in the mirror while Euphemia and the seamstress admire the colour of her hair, and feels like a different person.

* * *

Finally, it's time to buy her wand.

Mr. Ollivander is a strange man, with snow white hair and bright, silvery eyes. Euphemia greets him as she would a member of her family, but he remembers her by a wand he sold her decades ago, and not by her name. If this is odd behaviour, Euphemia doesn't show it.

"And your son," he says, with his eyes on Lily's face. "Eleven inches, mahogany, dragon heartstring, particularly suited to Transfiguration."

"It's his best subject," says Euphemia proudly.

"Naturally. They never lie." Ollivander hasn't taken his eyes away from Lily's. "We'll find one for you, too."

Lily is asked to hold three wands before she finds one that satisfies Ollivander – and herself, as it sits in her hand like an old friend, and sends a warm, pleasant tingle up her arm and along her spine. It's ten and a quarter inches, made from willow, and with a phoenix feather at its core. "Good for charm work," Ollivander tells her, not that it means much, but her heart is soaring through the clouds because finally, she feels a sense of belonging, even if it's only with a small strip of wood.

Ollivander watches her as she and Euphemia leave the shop, and Lily wonders if he'll remember her again, if she ever has a child of her own.

"Phoenix feather is the rarest core there is," Euphemia tells her, when they stop for an ice cream, and sit together in the sun.

"It is?"

"Mmhmm," she says, and spoons a heap of whipped cream into her mouth. "You must be very special."

* * *

The next two weeks pass in a pleasant blur. Lily spends a lot of time exploring the grounds of the house, clambering up trees and skipping across the stream, enjoying the remnants of a childhood she'd lost, and going for runs through the forest, accompanied by the chirping of birds and the smell of earth. She eats three good meals a day and the hollow spots in her cheeks fill out a little, and almost starts to agree when Euphemia calls her pretty. She insists on helping out around the house, though Euphemia insists that it's quicker to use magic, because she has nothing else to offer and no words to express her gratitude.

Lily learns that underage wizards aren't permitted to use magic outside of Hogwarts, but that Euphemia secured a special provision from the Ministry so that she can practice at home, and throughout the summer - under supervision, of course. She devours her books and sits on the window seat in her bedroom, draining cups of tea and practising her wand work. On her first day, she levitates a chiffon scarf into the air, and Euphemia presents her with a treacle tart - her favourite pudding - to celebrate her achievement.

Mr. Potter turns out to be a lovely man, albeit much quieter than his wife. In his lab, he takes her through the basics of potion making and pronounces her unusually adept. "He says you're better than James was, when he started out," says Euphemia over dinner, as if there can be no higher praise than surpassing James at anything.

Indeed, James dominates the house, despite never being there at all. On the night before his return from school, his mother buzzes around like an industrious bee, giddy with excitement, and buys enough food to feed several families. Lily smiles, but says nothing. She's a little nervous - nothing too serious, but a slight turn in her stomach, because the past two weeks have been perfect, her and the Potters and their little bubble. Part of her wishes it could stay that way for longer, but that's a selfishness she doesn't want to encourage. The Potters are wonderful people, so surely, their son must be nice, too.

She almost feels as if she knows him.

Or doesn't, because Euphemia is too generous in her praise, and no mere boy can be such a model of perfection.

Except for his face, she reflects, as she passes his photo at the top of the stairs. His face is pretty close to perfect.

* * *

They take the car to King's Cross the next day, and manage to get from Pembrokeshire to London – a journey that should have taken close to five hours – in less than two, and Lily laughs because the sat-nav on her phone can't keep up with them, and Mr. Potter keeps insisting that he's a really talented driver. While Fleamont waits in the car, Lily and Euphemia get to the platform by running directly through a brick wall, something that would have thrown Lily a fortnight ago, but she's seen so much since then that she barely flinches. Still, she's not without a sense of wonderment that rarely leaves her alone, these days.

She hangs back when they get off the train.

There's four of them, three tall, one short and round, and she spots _him_ the moment he steps onto the platform without realising that she'd been looking for him the whole time. He's laughing, with his head thrown back, his hair's an ebony disaster and his voice carries easily over the crowd of waiting parents and excited kids. He's a boy who attracts attention, with or without expending effort.

He catches sight of his mother and removes himself from his group of friends, throwing himself at her with a joyful yelp, locking her in a bone-crushing hug. A fluffy ginger cat appears at his feet, and rubs against Euphemia's legs.

Lily's heart flutters, and it's ridiculous, because you can't have a crush on someone you've never met.

Well, not unless they're famous, but James Potter isn't famous. He's just a boy, a boy who has been overestimated at every turn by his adoring, affectionate mother. She's probably been taken in by Euphemia's stories. It's probably nothing.

She's watching him, though he hasn't noticed her at all, but his friend has – the other one from the photos, a tall boy with long, silken black hair and brooding grey eyes. He's standing directly behind James, watching her with a slight frown on his handsome face, and raises an eyebrow when he catches her gaze.

"Who's this?" he says, with a London-bred accent, as Euphemia lets go of her son.

"Oh, yes, I've got a surprise for you both!" she says, and clutches her son's hand. "James, Sirius, this is Lily Evans. Lily, these are my boys."

James Potter looks at Lily for the first time, and his eyes – hazel like his mother's, but framed by a pair of spectacles – widen like saucers.

"I wanted it to be a surprise for when you got back," Euphemia chatters away, ignoring the fact that her son's mouth has dropped open, and that Lily is quite unable to stop staring back at him. "We've been fostering Lily for the last few weeks. She's Muggle-born, and missed her chance to go to Hogwarts, bless her, so she'll be having private lessons. She's doing quite well, aren't you, dear?" she says to Lily, beaming. "And now the boys are home, you'll have some friends for the summer!"

James's only response is to shake his head slightly, as if he's a dog ridding its ears of water. His friend, though, has not been afflicted by the same ailment. He springs forward and extends his right hand, dragging his case behind him with the other.

"I'm Sirius," he says, and Lily offers her hand, her attention drawn from James by this other boy. He shakes it rather vigorously.

"Lily," she says.

"Don't make jokes about me being serious."

"Alright. Don't make jokes about flowers."

He grins at her, and turns back to Euphemia. "I like her."

"Good," says Euphemia emphatically. "Lily, dear, feel free to fall in love with either of them, but not both."

Lily sneaks a look at James, and he's turned scarlet.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," he says back, looking very agitated.

He doesn't say another word until they reach the car, when all of a sudden he drops his case and darts past her to open the door to the backseat.

"I, er - after you," he says, not looking at her, which is almost pathetically sweet, but very strange. She can't help but give him a befuddled look when she climbs into the car. When she sits by the window, he bends to climb in after her, but is unceremoniously shoved aside by Sirius, who ends up sitting next to her with a wide, evil grin on his face. James follows him in, face burning, and the ginger cat leaps into his lap.

"So," says Sirius to Lily, when Fleamont starts the engine. "What's your life story?"

* * *

Sirius is alright. He's full of opinions, quite blatantly vain, and a little morbid at times, but Lily likes him anyway. By the time they pass Swindon, she wins him over with her knowledge of motorbikes – her parents were enthusiasts – and a mutual love of reading, though he prefers classic Russian literature, while she's a fan of folklore and historical fiction. James barely speaks for the whole drive, which prompts his mother and father to ask him why he's being so quiet.

He mutters something about feeling ill, so Sirius calls him a liar. Then they elbow one another, much to the irritation of the cat, who moves into Lily's lap and stays there for the duration of their drive, purring happily when she scratches his head.

"Algernon likes you," says Sirius, and nudges James in the ribs. "What do you think of that, Prongs?"

"Algernon has manners," he loftily replies. "Unlike you."

Things don't improve once they get home. James barely says a word through dinner, and when he does speak, it's always to his parents or Sirius, and never to her. He watches her a lot, though. Since she's watching him - she can't seem to keep her eyes off him for an extended period of time, which is very bothersome - it's not difficult to miss. By the time they start on pudding, she's convinced that he's offended by her presence. She goes to her room that night feeling a little disappointed, and annoyed with herself for being disappointed in the first place.

She reads a little of her Potions textbook and goes to the bathroom before bed, finds it locked and waits outside until its occupant comes out. After a couple of minutes, James emerges, holding Algernon, and with a fleck of toothpaste on his lower lip.

He drops Algernon when he catches sight of her - the cat lands gracefully on his front paws and scurries away - and hurriedly wipes his mouth. "Hi."

"Hey," she says, and hugs her arms to her chest.

"I was just in the bathroom."

"Er, yeah," she agrees, and part of her really wants to laugh, but she holds it in. "I've just seen you come out of there."

"Right," he says. He runs a hand through his hair, which doesn't seem to know which direction it wants to travel in. "Well, er... goodnight, then."

He side-steps around her and makes for his bedroom, which is next to hers, and Lily should really let him go and forget about it, but she doesn't want to be at odds with him, not when his parents mean so much to her. She clears her throat and spins on her heel, facing his retreating back. "James?"

He stops, and turns back around. "Yeah?"

"Look, I'm really sorry if you - I sort of get the impression that you're not exactly happy to have me here," she begins, wringing her hands. "And I understand, really, your parents are amazing, and I'm just some strange, random girl who's turned up in your-"

"No!" he yelps, his voice rising half an octave, and suddenly his face is the colour of merlot. He moves as if he's preparing to step towards her, but thinks better of it, and bounces unsteadily on the balls of his feet. "Shit, no, no, definitely not. I'm such a - I'm not unhappy _at all_ , promise, and I'm so sorry if I made you feel that way."

"Oh," she says. There's a long, awkward silence. "Then..."

"You're not going to leave, are you?"

She's taken aback by this line of questioning. "Pardon?"

"Only that'd be awful," he says, looking at her feet. "For Mum. She really likes you, and I'm not - honestly, you should ignore most of what I say and do, because I'm a prat, and I make absolutely no sense most of the time."

"Really?" She raises an eyebrow. "From the way your mum talks, you're some kind of genius."

"My genius is specific to, y'know, schoolwork," he says. He still can't look at her. "And plotting. Mostly plotting, with a bit of schoolwork thrown in. What else did she say about me?"

"That you're perfect, in a nutshell. You know, child prodigy, handsomest boy on earth, that sort of thing."

"Right," he says, and expels a breath. "Good to know she's got a healthy amount of scepticism. I wouldn't want to get a big head."

She laughs at that. "You're funny."

"Thanks," he says, blushing again. "And you're, er, lovely. You seem lovely." He looks up, his eyes focused on a point near her ear. "I'm really sorry if I made you think otherwise."

"Alright," she says, and she feels a little better. She jerks her thumb in the direction of the bathroom. "Well, I'm going to go in here."

"And I'm going to go in there," he says, pointing behind him. "To _my_ bedroom, not yours."

That makes her laugh again. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

She turns to enter the bathroom.

"Lily?"

She pauses, with her hand on the door frame, and looks over her shoulder. "Yes?"

He bounces on his feet again, looking pained, as if he's suffering from heartburn, and when he speaks it's as if the words have been forcibly torn from his lips. "Do you want me to teach you to fly tomorrow?"

Then she's right away from the door and standing in front of him, her earlier wariness forgotten, eyes shining with excitement because he's offering to let her _fly_. "I would love that so much," she says warmly. "You're really good, right? Your mum says you're captain of your school Quidditch team."

"I - my house team, yeah." He seems a little confused by her enthusiasm, but rather pleased with himself. "You really want me to show you?"

"Yes," she says. "Honestly. All of this is second nature to you, I know, but it's a shiny new penny for me and I'm still amazed by it all so, you know, whatever you want to show me, please do." She spreads her hands wide. "I'll be there with bells on."

"Alright. Cool," he says, and slants a smile at her, a boyish, cheeky thing. It transforms his whole face, that smile. His mother might not have been lying when she said he was the handsomest boy on earth. "Tomorrow, then. And I'll think of other stuff, too."

"Great. Thank you," she says happily, and then she really does have to go, before she starts dancing to hold it in. "Bathroom, need to go."

"Oh, yeah, go and do your thing," he says, shooing her away. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She has butterflies.


	2. and i, like a bird will fly

**Author's Note:** I originally intended to post this after Filthy Animals was finished, but as I'm taking a (short) break from Filthy Animals, guilt compelled me to update chapter 2 of this little ditty.

Thank you very much to Kristina for letting me have 'the floor is lava,' which I feel improved this chapter hugely.

 **part 2 - and i, like a bird will fly**

Lily wakes up with the sunrise the next morning, feeling excited, and after her shower she creeps downstairs to the kitchen to fix herself an early breakfast.

She eats her cereal on her window seat, accompanied by her books, her damp hair tied in a long, heavy braid. During a particularly fascinating chapter of her Transfiguration textbook, she looks up at the sound of a shout and notices that Sirius and James are outside, playing with a strange, glowing object that looks like a tennis ball but moves with greater speed and deliberation. Instead of tossing it to one another to catch, they're each trying to hit the other with it. Nearby, Algernon lies in a patch of buttery daffodils, basking contentedly in the early morning sun.

James is laughing again, doing all sorts of complex rolls and dives to avoid being hit, even leaping over the stream at one point. When he notices her watching - right after a particularly impressive catch - he stops in his tracks and colours immediately. She waves at him, then at Sirius, who motions for her to open the window.

"Morning," he says, once she's opened it and leaned out, her braid swinging in the breeze like a pendulum.

"Morning."

"Getting a good view of our arses up there?"

She laughs. "It's not your arses I'm concerned about. Is that thing safe?"

"Not really," says Sirius, grinning up at her. "Come down and talk to us, James misses you."

James responds by blushing even more furiously and throwing the ball at Sirius, who catches it with two hands before it can sock him in the stomach, grinning wickedly, and Lily can't do much else other than laugh.

"Alright, then," she agrees. "I'll be down in a minute."

* * *

"So, how does the provision work?" says Sirius.

The stream that runs through the Potters' back garden is full of stepping-stones, and Lily, who has always been sure of foot, is hopping from one to the other with her arms held aloft. She's kicked off her shoes and taken her braid out, all the better for her hair to dry in the sun. The two boys are sitting next to the stream, lazing in the warmth, and she is mostly conversing with Sirius. James has gone quiet again, which Lily is starting to suspect is uncharacteristic of him.

"I'm not sure," she replies, with her eyes on her feet, and jumps to the next stone. "They told me that I could do magic here over summer, but that the Ministry says I have to be watched."

"Who's been watching you?"

She looks up at them both, and shrugs. "Nobody. I mean, your father, sometimes," she adds, speaking to James. "But that's just when I'm mixing potions or in the greenhouse. Otherwise, they trust me to get on with it."

"And people wonder why you grew up a troublemaker," says Sirius to James, smacking his back. "This is excellent, Evans. I'm glad you're here."

"Why?"

"Because," he says, with a wide, sly smile. "The Ministry doesn't track individual underage students, do they? They can sense when magic is being performed by an underage student, but not that student's identity, which means that James and I have free reign this summer. Anything we do, they'll assume you're doing it."

"Oh," says Lily. She drops her arms to her sides. "Can they trace the kind of magic you're doing?"

"Yes," says James, who still can't seem to look at her face for more than a couple of seconds, and is pulling the petals from an unfortunate daisy. "They can."

"So if you perform some incredibly complex spell, you think they're going to assume it's the Muggle-born who hasn't had a day's magical education in her life?"

Sirius's face falls.

James laughs. "She's got you there."

"Shut your trap, daisy mutilator," says Sirius, indicating to the petals that are strewn about James's outstretched legs. "Does she love you or not?"

"Shut _up_ ," James replies, and then they're shoving one another. Lily resumes her skipping until she's back on the bank, brushing off dust that isn't really there. Sirius, who has James trapped in a headlock, lets go abruptly and climbs to his feet.

"Toilet," he says, and points at the ground. "Here, Evans, sit here and keep James company."

He dashes off to the house and Lily drops into his vacated spot next to James. The sun is warm on her shoulders, and Algernon moves from the daffodil patch to snuggle against her thigh. James spares a perfunctory glance at his cat, then moves on to another daisy.

They sit in silence for a little while, waiting for Sirius to come back, but he never does. Finally, Lily looks over her shoulder and sees him in the kitchen, having a cup of tea with Euphemia.

"Your mum's got Sirius," she says, pointing to the house. James looks up from his work for long enough to take a backwards glance.

"Yeah," he agrees, turning back to the daisy. "They're close."

She can't understand why he won't look at her, and it bothers her that she cares. He got her hopes up last night and now he's retreated back to... whatever this is.

She picks a daisy for herself, and starts imitating him, adding her petals to the pile he's made.

"I must be really ugly," she airily remarks.

His eyes are on hers immediately. "What?"

"You seem really determined not to look at me." Her tone is light, just enough to hide the fact that, on some level, this matters to her. "Is it the red hair? I know it's an acquired taste, but I've always been quite fond of it."

"You're not - _no_ ," he says, and sighs heavily. "I don't - I really can't get it right with you, can I?"

"What's there to get right?"

"Not coming across as a total idiot, for one."

"Well, you're maintaining eye contact," she points out. "That's a good start."

James nods. There's something helpless about him, an earnestness, a sweetness of manner that can't be disguised by their stilted conversation, or his inability to meet her eyes for an extended number of seconds. "I don't think you're ugly at all. And I like your hair."

"Well, good," she replies, with a teasing smile. "It's important that the handsomest boy on earth likes my hair, otherwise how would I sleep at night?"

He blushes, but it's alright, because she's blushing too. "Like a top, probably."

"You're probably right. I don't think I've had a bad night's sleep since I got here."

"That's nice," he says. "Like your hair, incidentally. Which I really do like."

"Thank you. Your hair is... nice, too."

He brightens a little. "Yeah?"

"Do you, I mean, do you use anything in it to make it that..." She holds her hands up on either side of her head and shakes them. "Or is it just like that all by itself?"

"You'd think, right?" he says, and smiles. "I mean, my dad's the inventor of hair potion, but no, I don't use anything."

"So you're a natural mess?"

"Yup. Inside and out."

She laughs, and she's sitting in a beautiful garden with a beautiful boy, who may or may not like her hair, and life feels pretty great, actually.

"Hey," she says, after a moment of silence, when they've plucked their daisies bare. He meets her eyes again, immediately, as if determined not to disappoint her again.

"Yeah?"

"Do you still want to teach me how to fly?"

"Yes," he says emphatically. " _That_ I can do."

* * *

"So you'll want to grip the handle with your _good_ hand on top," James is saying. "And your other hand below it."

This would be a lot easier without an audience, but Sirius and Euphemia have brought their tea out to the garden, and are sitting on wicker chairs beneath a large parasol, dipping digestives and speaking to one another in low voices. Euphemia's wearing a pair of cat eye sunglasses with her silk dressing gown, like an off-duty film star from the 1950s.

Lily adjusts her hands, and she'd feel sillier about sitting on a broomstick in the middle of the garden, only it's humming with magic. Despite the fact that it is, undeniably, a broomstick, she feels more like she's perched on a cushion, which explains why James can fly the thing in the first place. He's got more to hurt than she does.

"Don't arch your back so much," he says, and she straightens her spine. "Not when you're taking off."

"This feels really strange," she says, and looks at him. "Did it feel strange for you, when you started?"

"Er, no," he admits. "But I've been flying since I was little, so I can't really remember. Are you comfortable?"

"Comfortable enough, yeah."

"Do you feel like the broomstick is anchoring you to the ground?"

She nods.

"Good. Okay, so what you need to do next is push off with your feet – in a minute, not now," he adds hurriedly. "Sort of like you're getting up from a chair, but really gently."

"Is that so I don't shoot off like a cannonball?"

"You'll want to get a couple of feet up, so you're hovering a bit," he explains, and holds his hand chest high. "Around this height, to start with."

"That's fine, I don't particularly want to break my neck on the first try."

He pulls a face. "Unless you want me to die of guilt, please don't."

"I'll try my best," she promises. "Now?"

"Yeah," he says. "Go for it, but be careful."

With great trepidation, she pushes away from the ground with her feet, as slowly and easily as possible - and it works. The broomstick rises off the ground and hovers a couple of feet in the air, and James smiles at her, and she laughs, and it all feels so surreal.

Then the broomstick wobbles, and she lets go with one hand, instinctively reaching out to grab his shoulder.

"You're alright," he says, but holds her arm with both his hands anyway. "I won't let you fall."

"I might fall."

"Then I'll catch you."

She laughs again, nervously this time, both because of the broom and because he's touching her, and since when was she such a _girl_? "I'm not a coward, I promise. This is just such a weird feeling."

"For Merlin's sake, Prongs," Sirius pipes up from his chair. "Just get on the bloody thing with her!"

"Sod off, Sirius," says James, glancing over his shoulder. "Ignore him, he's just a-"

"Could you?"

His eyes widen. "What?"

"Can you do that? I mean..." She looks behind her. "Is there room?"

"Plenty of room!" Sirius shouts, while Euphemia titters beside him.

"Are you sure?" says James.

"Yes," she says, nodding. "I think I'd feel better, if you were with me. Safer, I mean."

For what seems like the millionth time, he's gone bright red, and like a brilliant flash of light in her eyes, Lily gets it.

Or thinks she does. Maybe she's just hopeful.

"Alright," he agrees. "I'll sit behind you. Lean forward a little, very gently."

She lets go of his shoulder and leans toward the handle, and the broomstick lowers itself to waist height. Quick as a flash, James is behind her, fitting easily against her back.

"Is it okay if I, erm?" he says. "Don't want to assume."

"Oh," she says. "Yes, it's fine."

So he puts his hands on her waist, and Sirius lets out a wolf-whistle, and James makes a low, annoyed sound in the back of his throat.

"Okay," he says. "I'll push off, you steer - it's dead easy, and I'll tell you what to do. If you need help at any point, I'll take over. Got it?"

"Got it," she says, with a firm nod. "Don't let go of me."

"Believe me, that won't be a problem."

"Good. Great." She's glad that he can't see her face, because her rosy cheeks could give him a run for his money. "I'd rather not die before I turn seventeen."

"Don't worry. I already told you," says James. "I won't let you fall."

* * *

When she dismounts, a little while later, Lily feels rather breathless.

"That was _amazing_!" she cries, taking a few dizzy steps towards Sirius, who stayed in the garden to watch them. Euphemia has gone inside. "Amazing! I've never felt so – argh! I can't even explain it!"

Sirius laughs. "You did alright up there, Evans."

"Did I? No, that was all James, I was useless," she says, and she's beaming, and her heart is beating so fast and she wants to do a million things at once, like do it again, or run around the garden, or jump up and down on the spot, or hug James, who is just brilliant, incredible, and flies intuitively, like a bird, as if he had simply been born to it.

James, who didn't let her fall.

"That was the greatest thing I've ever done in my whole life," she enthuses, and twirls around to face him. He's holding the broomstick, and looks pretty pleased with the turn of events. His hair is more windswept than ever.

"I'm glad," he says. "Flying is brilliant."

"Thank you so much," she says, all warmth and fire - Euphemia told her that fire was important. "What that meant to me - you've got no idea."

"It's alright," he replies, and grins at her, a smile she hasn't seen from him before. "Happy to do it."

"I'm going to go and tell your mum," she says, and does a little skip before running towards the house, but turns again at the last minute. "I was really flying!"

"Yeah, you were!" says James, smiling widely.

She runs into the kitchen, and thinks that _this_ was worth waiting her entire life for.

* * *

Maybe it's because he's grown used to her presence, or maybe it's because he spent fifteen minutes holding her, quite literally, while they hurtled through the air together, but something restrictive has broken between her and James - that barrier she's felt since she met him off the train - and an easy, instinctive connection has taken its place.

They've clicked.

"I was _rubbish_."

"You weren't rubbish."

"I was," she insists. "You're just being nice because I'm a ragged little orphan."

"Ragged little orphans can't get _changed_ for dinner," says James, nodding at Lily's outfit. Euphemia bought her so many clothes that Lily has yet to wear the same thing twice. "Nice dress, by the way."

"I'll have you know that I changed because I spilled milk on my top."

"Then you're a clumsy little orphan, but you're not rubbish on a broom."

"What about when that bird flew in the way and I nearly killed us both?"

His lips quirk upwards. "It was a very scary bird."

"It was a sparrow," she says, and points her fork at him, on the end of which sits a crispy roast potato. "You are so full of it."

James, who is beside her at the table, eyes the potato, then takes the fork out of her hand and pops it in his mouth.

"Thanks," he says, through a mouthful, and pats his stomach. Lily gapes at him.

"You just stole food from an orphan!" she accuses, though she's laughing heartily, and she's nearly full anyway.

"Did not," he argues, once he's swallowed his ill-gotten gains. He grins at her as he hands back her fork. "That was payment for taking you up on my broom. My time is extremely valuable, you know."

"So I have to pay you in root vegetables if I ever need a favour?"

"That wouldn't be his first choice of payment," says Sirius, who is also present, as are James's parents. It occurs to Lily that she and James really shouldn't be engaging in such an exclusive conversation in the middle of dinner, but there's something so... blinding about him. It's hard for her to notice anyone else.

"Well, unfortunately, I'm not exactly rolling in cash," she says to Sirius, daintily ignoring James's red face. "I'll have to take up farming."

"Or you could just-"

" _Sirius_ ," says Euphemia, with a raised brow. "What have I told you about rushing? It's not gentlemanly."

Sirius spears a piece of chicken on the end of his knife. "I'm not a gentleman."

"You are when you're in this house," says Euphemia smoothly. "Lily, dear, it's lovely to see you getting along with the boys. Have you made any other plans?"

She opens her mouth to say that she's not sure, but James beats her to it.

"I was thinking of taking her to a Quidditch match," he says, as he slices his meat. "The Catapults are playing against Appleby Arrows next week."

"Take her to a Wasps game," says Sirius, and leans across the table. "Quidditch tip, Evans, you'll want to support the Wimbourne Wasps, their defensive line-"

"Er, _no!_ " says James, so scandalised by this that he sets his knife and fork down on the table. "She'll support the Catapults, thank you very much!"

"Why do I have to support the Catapults?"

"Because," says James, and shrugs. "The Potters have always supported the Catapults."

"I'm not a Potter, though."

"Doesn't matter, you're still part of this family."

She laughs at that. "I've been living here for two weeks."

"Mum," says James loudly. "Tell Lily that she's part of this family whether she likes it or not."

"Lily," says Euphemia. "You're part of this family."

James gives her a smug, self-satisfied grin. "That's you told."

* * *

Lily is extremely good at Potions.

As a matter of fact, Lily has a knack for everything, but Potions is her favourite subject. She could spend hours whiling away in Mr. Potter's lab, scouring through her textbook and examining the weird and wonderful array of ingredients he's got at his disposal, accompanied by the man himself, who has taken to calling her 'little one' and comments favourably on her creations. There's something soothing about the subject, a preciseness, a keenness, and a focus on detail that Lily enjoys. She's found that there's nothing so relaxing as potion-making, and nothing so satisfying as getting it right.

That is, until the first time James visits her in the lab.

He's been back for eight days, and he's bored - his words - because Sirius got a letter from his family, and he always needs to be alone after reading one of their epistles. While Sirius lies beneath the oak tree reading _The Brothers Karamazov_ , James joins her to offer his own, unique brand of expertise.

"Throw in some antimony," he suggests, while she's sweating over her cauldron. He fishes the little blue bottle from a shelf near his elbow, and holds it up to the light.

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Just to see what happens?"

Lily wipes some soot from her nose, straightens up over her cauldron and crooks her finger at him. "Come here for a second."

He lopes over with his hands in his pockets, and she points a finger at her textbook when he draws next to her.

"Look at this," she instructs him, running her finger along the list of ingredients. "And tell me, _where_ on this page can you see an instruction to add antimony to a Forgetfulness Potion?"

James examines it for a second. "Well, you know what happened here, don't you?"

"No. What happened?"

He looks up at her, grinning slyly. "They forgot to put it in the book."

"That's not funny," she says, biting back a laugh.

"You're such a liar," he happily accuses. "We'll be needing some Veritaserum for you if you keep up like this. How can you see through your web of lies?"

"We're lucky we can see at all, and that you haven't blown up your dad's lab."

"How did any potion get invented if nobody ever threw random ingredients in a cauldron?"

"Oh, I don't know." Lily taps a finger to her chin, and pretends to look confused. "Through careful study and controlled testing?"

"That's why nobody ever has fun brewing potions."

"I have fun brewing potions."

"And we all think that's very cute," says James, and nudges her chin with the back of his finger. "Good for you!"

"What are you doing down here, son?" says Fleamont, who has entered the lab, gingerly carrying a small, wooden box containing a number of glass vials that are filled to the brim with a murky, purple liquid. "Bothering Lily again? Don't you have any other hobbies?"

"I'm inspiring her with my presence," says James, and hops up on the table, swinging his legs.

"Inspiring me towards violence."

"You begged me not to leave."

" _Now_ who needs Veritaserum?"

Fleamont sets the box down on another table, far away from James, which is probably a good idea. "How's your draught coming along, little one?"

"Pretty well, I think," she says, and consults her book. "I've gotten the right level of thickness, and it's got ten more minutes to cook until I add the mistletoe berries."

"Excellent," says Fleamont. "It's nice to finally have a child who appreciates my craft."

"I appreciate your craft!" James cries.

"You appreciate the racing broom your mother bought you _because_ of my craft," says Fleamont, and winks at Lily. "This one, on the other hand, is a true potioneer."

"I take you into this house," says James to Lily, pretending to glare at her, but failing, because he only has to look at her and he's breaking into a smile. "I give you the clothes off my back, and what do you do? You steal my parents."

"I left the world's smallest violin with my last foster family," she says, and gives him a playful shove. He leans forward and musses up her hair, and they're both laughing, and Mr. Potter sighs fondly and goes back to his vials.

James may or may not be stealing something of hers, she later reflects, but it should take more than eight days to admit to losing _that_.

* * *

It weighs on her to be given so much when she contributes so little, even if Euphemia insists that she's no burden on their shoulders. Lily is determined, though, and gets a part-time job in the café in town.

James, who has been home for a little over two weeks, visits her in her room on her first day of work. He throws himself dramatically on her bed, sprawling backwards, and lets out a loud, affected sigh.

"I just made that," she tells him, watching him in the mirror as she braids her hair. "If you need to jump on someone's bed, jump on your own."

"I'm _wounded_ ," he says.

"You'll live."

He sits up, all puppy-dog eyes and sadness. "Why do you have to go to work?"

"Because they tend to expect you to show up."

"What am I supposed to do while you're gone?"

She shrugs. "Hang around with Sirius? Torment your cat? Whatever you did before I moved in."

"What if I tell you the floor is lava? How will you get out?"

"I guess I'm condemned to a painful, fiery death."

"I could grab hold of your legs when you try to leave," he suggests. "I'm dead strong. How would you escape?"

"I'd hex you."

He laughs. "No offense, but I've been hexing people for a little longer than-"

"I can use my wand," she reminds him. "And you can't."

She smiles triumphantly at him in the mirror, and he collapses back onto the bed.

"You're no help, Evans," he moans. "I'm _attached_ now, you can't just deprive me of your company without warning."

"It's a four hour shift, and you've known for days."

"Plus the time it takes you to walk there and back, which is almost another hour."

"Thank you, oh great one, for crunching the numbers. Pass me my earrings, will you?" She points to her dresser. "They're sitting next to my headphones."

James gets up and walks to the dresser, where he pauses for a moment.

"Er," he says. "What are headphones?"

"What?"

He turns around. "I don't know what headphones are."

The Potters, brilliant people though they are, are not particularly up-to-date on the Muggle world. They have electrical outlets in the farmhouse, and they function, but there's no other Muggle technology to be found - even the kitchen appliances are magically powered. It took a while to get used to, but Lily barely misses it. She's too distracted by magic, by the excitement she feels when she masters a new spell or perfects a new potion, and by Fleamont and Euphemia, and James and Sirius, and the way in which they've taken her into their lives, wholeheartedly and without question.

It's a strange thing, to know a boy her age who doesn't know these things, but Lily rather enjoys it. James has so much to offer her, like flying, and Quidditch, and the soft, silvery cloak he showed her a few days back, the one that removes him from plain sight when he puts it on.

It's nice to have something he doesn't, something that she can give to him.

"They're these things," says Lily, and crosses the room. She picks her headphones up from the dresser and holds them out for inspection. "You listen to music with them."

"How?"

"You put them in your ears. I'll show you." She sticks her earbuds in and dangles the other end of the wire in front of James's nose. "This part goes in here." She picks up her iPod - which is ancient, and the only gift she's gotten from her sister in six years - and plugs the headphones into the jack. "Then I can play music."

She turns on her iPod and hits play, pulls out one of the earbuds and offers it to James. "Listen."

"Alright," he says, taking it from her hand. He holds it close to his ear. " _Oh_."

"Can you hear it?"

"Yeah," he says, and smiles at her. "I've heard you singing this before."

"When?"

He shrugs. "When you're doing dishes. It's nice."

"My singing?"

"I meant the song," he says, and laughs. "But yeah, that too. This is cool."

Being around James is so easy, as easy as being alone, only so much more fun. She never has to search her mind for an adequate response or struggle to start a conversation - it's second nature to them, and though his knowledge of all things magical greatly exceeds her own, he's never made her feel inadequate, not once. On the contrary, Lily is brighter, happier, quicker and more brilliant in his presence, but he matches her step-for-step, and it's wonderful, feeling so free to be exactly who she is, and to be with somebody who likes her so much for it.

Sometimes she feels as if... but she can't. Her thoughts can't stray that way.

His parents didn't foster her so she could develop feelings for their son, and she should have more self control.

Especially when they're alone together, like now, when it's just the two of them, her and this blinding, beautiful boy who she thinks she'd like to kiss because his lips look so soft, and because maybe he wants to kiss her back.

So she pauses the song and steps away, dislodging the earbuds from both of their ears. She sets the iPod on her dresser.

"You can borrow this while I'm gone, if you like," she tells him. "I don't have anything recent on it because you don't have the internet, but-"

"What's an internet?"

"It's... difficult to explain." She picks up her earrings and starts to put them in. "You don't know a lot about Muggle culture, do you?"

"Not really. Mum does a bit, because she had a Muggle mother, but she says she's out of touch now."

"Is it not something you're interested in?"

"Oh, no, I am! Dead interested. Like, why do you go running in the forest? Nobody's chasing you, and you're not racing anyone. And what's a meme? Only you can't really go up to a Muggle and ask those questions."

"What about the Muggle-borns at school?"

"Well, you _can_ ask them," he admits. "But I don't really have anyone like that in my group of friends."

She sends him a flat look.

"And, alright, maybe I've become a bit _more_ interested since I met you," he admits, grinning. "This music thing is cool, though. I suppose I will borrow it, if you insist on leaving me."

"I don't have to leave you _just_ yet," she says. "Not if you walk me to work."

"Well, obviously," says James, and bounces toward the door. "That was my plan all along."

* * *

Lily doesn't ask again, and James never offers, but regardless, he walks her to and from work for every single shift she picks up. Their wordless agreement is an accepted fact, like the sunset, or the ebb and flow of the tides, or the inevitability of Euphemia setting something of his on fire at least once every couple of days to 'teach him a lesson.'

Most days, she doesn't need to wait until the end of her shift to see him again because he turns up with Sirius – who takes a book with him – to order endless mugs of coffee and plates of chips. The first time this happens, he and Sirius forget to bring Muggle money with them and Lily pays for their lunch from her own pocket. James is so guilty over the whole affair that he buys her flowers, a bunch of sunshine-yellow roses that he presents to her after work.

"You said that yellow flowers were your favourite," he tells her, after she's exclaimed over the roses and buried her nose in their soft, sweet-smelling petals. He looks at his feet and scuffs his shoe against the ground. "They won't ever die, not until you want them to."

"How did you manage that without a wand?" she asks him.

"I have my ways," he says, then looks up and sees the disbelieving expression on her face. He laughs. "It was Mum."

She keeps them on her window seat, and greets them every morning.

She carries on diligently with her studies, and finds herself more comfortable around other people because she no longer fears a random act of magic that she can't control. Her colleagues at the café take to her quickly. Work is fine - a little dull on quiet weekdays, but James has a way of brightening the place up. He even brings Algernon on one occasion, and Lily has to talk her manager out of imposing a lifelong ban, reminding her that James could pay her wages himself with the amount of coffee he drinks.

"No wonder he's wired to the bloody moon," says Charli, with a roll of her eyes. "Fine, he can stay, but only if he leaves that cat at home."

Walking to work and back is always just the two of them, no matter who James convinces to join him for lunch. Most days, they take the scenic route – hopping over an old, creaking fence, traipsing past the playground and following the river until it meets the stream, which winds carelessly into the garden. It takes a good fifteen minutes longer than the straight road into town.

Lily says she only walks that way because prefers the view, and he agrees. She's lying, and can't help but hope that James is lying too.

"Do you have a girlfriend at Hogwarts?" she asks him one evening, once he's been back for a month, and they're walking home together in a dry, companionable heat, another golden day in a beautifully blithe summer. It's a bold question, but Lily mastered a Freezing charm last night on her first try - even though it's part of the second year curriculum and considered too advanced for a novice. She had a good day at work. The sunlight makes her hair gleam like an ember and it makes her feel pretty. Bold is how she feels today.

"Nope," he replies, looking at her curiously. "Why'd you want to know?"

"No real reason," she lies. "Just curious about what you guys get up to."

"Do you have a boyfriend at... any of the places you've been?"

"Where would I keep one of those?" she says, with a laugh. "I've never had a boyfriend."

His laugh, short and disbelieving, mirrors her own. "Seriously?"

"Why's that so funny? It's pretty much a given when you never stay in the same place for more than a few months."

"Oh, it's not funny, just hard to believe that nobody ever - y'know." Words appear to fail him, so he gestures to her, sweeping his hand upwards through the air. "I mean, look at you."

A pleasant warmth touches her cheeks. "Look at me what?"

"Sod off, you know what I mean."

"Well, same here. I thought you'd definitely have a girlfriend at school."

"Why'd you think that?"

"Because," she says, and copies his gesture. "Look at _you_."

He smiles at her like she's the advent of Christmas morning. "Oh yeah, I'm dead handsome, me. I've actually got too much choice at school. Girls fight over me every day."

"I'm serious!" she cries, giggling, and gives him a light, good-natured shove. "You're clever and funny, and you're a Quidditch captain, and annoyingly good at _everything_ -"

"-and nowhere near as good-looking as Sirius," James finishes. "But all of the other stuff is true. Thanks for reminding me of what a catch I am."

"I'm surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it, honestly."

"It'd be a lot less fat if you didn't keep filling it with compliments."

"When do I _ever_ fill your head with compliments?"

"Just now," he says, and he's grinning, and it's enough to set her heart aflutter - silly, infatuated girl that she is. "When you said I was clever and funny."

"But not as good-looking as Sirius," she slyly reminds him.

"I said that, not you. You might think I'm much fitter than Sirius."

"I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"If you do, you definitely _should_ tell me," he says. "For the sake of my confidence, which is at an all-time low."

She shoves him again, and they both laugh, and then a silence falls between them - a very comfortable silence - as they crunch through the tall grass with the river beside them, the water splashing gently against the bank, and the far-off laughter of children fading in the distance.

"Have you really never had a boyfriend?" he says, after a few minutes.

She shakes her head.

"Nobody at all?"

"I mean, I've kissed someone before, but that was in an old foster home. His sister dared me to do it," she says, frowning. "It doesn't bother me, except-"

"Except what?"

"This is going to sound really stupid if I tell you."

"Half of what I say sounds stupid," James reminds her. "And that's on a good day. Tell me."

She isn't going to tell him, really, but he's got that pathetic, puppy-dog look in his eyes that he puts on because he knows it makes her laugh, which she does, and after that she can't deny him anything.

"Fine," she agrees, with a weighty sigh. "I've never held hands with anyone, and that kind of bothers me."

He doesn't laugh at her, but frowns, the tiniest crease between his eyebrows. "Why?"

"My parents used to hold hands all the time," she explains. "Like, they made a point of it, not just at home but whenever we went anywhere in public. It used to embarrass my sister - she said they were acting like children, but they'd just laugh and say that she'd understand when she was older."

They walk beneath a tree, and she ducks to avoid a low-hanging branch, sweeping it to the side with her arm.

"Growing up, I always had this idea that holding hands was, like, _it_ , you know? I guess it was because of them, because they really loved each other. I don't care about dating or kissing or anything like that, but the hand thing - it'd be nice. I suppose. I don't really know."

"Oh," says James, though Lily is determinedly looking the other way. "I see."

A second silence falls between them. A bird chirps sweetly in the background. She chances a glance at him, her face half-hidden behind her hair, and James kicks aimlessly at an empty can that somebody left in the grass.

"You can hold my hand," he says quietly. "If you want to know what it feels like."

Her heart leaps into her throat. "Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, you're my friend, right? So if you want - as long as you don't think it's weird."

She looks at his face. He's blushing again, staring straight ahead of him.

"Alright," she says. "I don't think it's weird."

He doesn't say a word, doesn't so much as look at her, but his hand swings wide and brushes against hers, so she catches it, lacing their fingers together. It's so easy, one fluid movement and she's holding his hand, which is warm and solid, and fits comfortably against hers. They smile stupidly at each other and continue their walk as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened, but it feels like getting her wand again, like something she's supposed to do, like magic.

She thinks she must be falling for him.

She thinks that's a terrible idea.

She doesn't think she can help herself.


End file.
